NC-17

by Larissa Reinhart

  I hurried through the barren area, theorizing the police had spoken to Dr. Trident and left thoroughly confused. Which happened when one listened to Dr. Trident. I had experience in making sense of his cryptic therapy-speak. Hopefully, I’d learn something about Lawson. Then, if it seemed there was more to the story, I’d use Oliver’s phone to call Ian. The police could use me for an interpreter.

  It felt like a good plan and maybe one where I could redeem myself in Ian’s eyes by scoring him some brownie points at work.

  An ATV and two golf carts were parked outside the garden gate. Using Oliver’s phone, I unlocked the gate. I hurried toward the greenhouse, passing the bags of fertilizer. My heart hammered inside my throat. The sun glared overhead, baking the overturned dirt and steaming the bags of fertilizer. Sticky sweat broke out on the back of my neck.

  The crazy security still bothered me. Why was this area such a secret? Farm to table was a thing to show off in our world, not hide. They should hang fairy lights from the razor wire and place picnic tables among the tomatoes.

  Reaching the greenhouse, through the window I saw Dr. Sakda’s white coat move among the plants. Where was Dr. Trident? I didn’t want to charge in on scary Sakda.

  I halted before reaching the entrance. Cut through the rows of corn to the side of the greenhouse. Peered through the windows. The kratom trees obstructed my view. Took out Oliver’s phone and pressed the app for the security feed. And saw a group of teenagers enter the lobby and approach reception.

  Fred, Mara, and Laci.

  I checked the time and gritted my teeth. Those truants.

  They huddled then moved toward one of the couches. Flopped and pulled out their phones. Oliver would find them and take care of them. Probably feed them my fried chicken.

  While he wondered where his non-fiancée had gone with his phone.

  Right. Dr. Trident.

  I thumbed past the other screens until I reached the greenhouse. The security cameras were positioned at each end of the building. Dr. Sakda moved around the far end, checking the plants. Dr. Trident sat on a table near the entrance, swinging his leg and talking. To Young Thug.

  Holy hellsballs.

  Sliding to the ground, I squatted and chewed my thumbnail. Wished I had gotten my .38 from Oliver’s safe before leaving his office, but it hadn’t occurred to me until now that I might need it.

  What the frigistan was Dr. Trident doing? And Dr. Sakda seemed oblivious. Maybe she was. She’d seemed totally fixated on her organic chemistry plantage whatnots.

  Okay. I had a phone. I’d call the police and report the sighting of armed and dangerous. I thumbed through Oliver’s app — Why was it so hard to find the actual phone app on his phone? — and heard the creak of a door. I peered around the edge of the greenhouse. Young Thug was leaving. Outside the entrance, he acquired an empty wheelbarrow. And a shovel.

  Hang on, were Young Thug and Everett both garden caretakers? Working privately for Dr. Trident?

  From my squat, I watched Young Thug push the wheelbarrow toward the bean teepees and begin to dig. His back was to me and I was out of security camera range, but I wasn’t exactly hidden around the corner of a glass house. The shriveled cornstalks didn’t obstruct my view of Young Thug, but they also didn’t provide much cover.

  I hunkered as low as possible and bore the numbness in my haunches. Young Thug carefully removed bean poles with the attached vines and roots. Setting these aside, he dug again. The earth was loose and loamy — probably thanks to all that fertilizer — and his dirt pile grew quickly. An oblong hole appeared. Bending over, he reached into the hole and pulled back a dirty tarp. Working quickly, he hauled out a garbage bag. Someone buried more than boots at Wellspring. Whatever was inside was lumpy. Like a body.

  No, too lumpy. But I wished my mind hadn’t jumped there.

  Fighting off the cramping in my thighs and the ache in my back, I watched him lug out another bag and dump them in the large wheelbarrow. The dirt returned to the hole. The beans replaced. The earth tapped down. Young Thug pushed the wheelbarrow toward the gate. Striding through the rows of tomatoes and peppers, like one of Snow White’s dwarfs rolling their mining cart.

  Heigh-ho.

  Forty-Eight

  #Tridont #KnightAgain

  Young Thug hurried the wheelbarrow toward the gate and I slowly pushed off the ground, creeping along the wooden fence. I felt safe from security cameras. As long as Dr. Trident or Dr. Sakda stayed in the greenhouse, I wouldn’t be seen. Young Thug focused on rolling the cart between vegetable beds. And because he was in a hurry, he had his eyes on the bouncing bags.

  As he stopped to open the gate, I sank behind bags of fertilizer and flattened against the fence. Waited until he’d pushed the wheelbarrow through the gate. Glanced back toward the greenhouse. And spotted Dr. Trident moseying among the pepper plants.

  Craptastic.

  I had no way to hide from this angle. I rose and waved.

  “Maizie,” he called. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Oh, you know.” I waved my hand at the garden, playing vague to his cryptic. “What are you doing?”

  He drew himself up, swinging his arms and sucking in the scent of dirt and vegetables. “Taking in the gloriousness of nature. Try it with me, Maizie.”

  “Yes, very glorious, but I should get going.” I danced on my toes. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “No, I meant take it in. Not describe it.” He rolled his hand. “Deep breath.”

  I inhaled the scent of fertilizer and coughed.

  “Life-giving, isn’t it? We should selfie. But not here. Walk with me to the Center.”

  I didn’t know what tune Dr. Trident played. And considering with whom he gardened, I didn’t trust him. “I’m good. Listen, there was a young guy just here. Do you know him?”

  “Very helpful young man. Denver Crosby.”

  “Does he and Everett Lawson work for you?”

  “Work.” Dr. Trident cocked his head. “It means to toil or labor. Why do we call work, work?”

  Digging in the garden seemed like toil and labor to me, but I couldn’t tell if Dr. Trident’s intention was subterfuge or just general nuttishness. “I meant, did you hire them personally? Or are they community service volunteers? What are they doing at Wellspring?”

  Dr. Sakda leaned out the door. “Dr. Trident, who’s in the garden with you?”

  “I’m going to leave now.” I scooted around the fertilizer, edging toward the gate. “Thanks for the session.”

  Trident looked over his shoulder. “Maizie Albright. Should we rap with her?”

  Not waiting to hear Dr. Sakda’s response, I shot toward the gate. Trident called after me. I waved, kicked the gate closed, and jumped into a golf cart.

  Denver had left on the ATV. I had a feeling he headed to the hidden gate. I floored the cart. It whirred across the weedy wasteland past the old cowshed. Before reaching the ATV garage, I stopped. Snuck around the side and found the garage door closed. Ran back to the cart and motored through the pine grove path to the gate. Using Oliver’s phone, I let myself through, then studied the trail leading up the mountain.

  “Hey, Maizie.”

  Startled, I turned. Three figures broke through the vines entrapping a group of pines. Fred, wielding a pocket knife, followed by Mara and Laci.

  Shiztastic.

  “What did I say about hiking in these woods? Why aren’t you in school?”

  “We were worried about you, so we came to see you,” said Mara. “Our parents wouldn’t let us go to school today because you told them it wasn’t safe.”

  “Why would it be safer here than at school?” I waved my hands at the forest. “Where are your parents?”

  “My dad had to go to work.” Laci spun a lock of hair around her finger.

  “I didn’t want to go to a swamp,” said Fred, playing with his knife. “Neither did my mother.”

  “In other words, they left you at home and you snuck out.”

&n
bsp; Three more shrugs.

  “Anyway, we got tired of waiting in the lobby,” said Laci. “We overheard someone saying you were in the back area, so we thought we’d come this way and call to you through the fence.”

  Shizzles. I’d been reported. “This is like the worst place for you to find me.”

  “Actually,” said Fred. “It’s the best since we found you.”

  “I’m trailing Denver, the dude who’s been threatening me.”

  “That’s not safe either,” said Laci.

  “It’s my job.” They simultaneously raised their brows. “Okay, not my job, but it’s somebody’s and they’re not doing it. I’m collecting evidence for the police. I’m going to lose him, so I’ve got to bounce.”

  “We’ll come with you.” Fred waved the knife. “To protect you.”

  “A knife won’t do any good against a gun.” I slid onto the golf cart. “Go home.”

  I whirred forward. Twenty yards up the trail, the cart jammed on a tree root. I mentally face-palmed.

  “You need an ATV,” called Mara. “Golf carts aren’t meant for trail riding.”

  They reached me a minute later. “You’ll need help with the trail,” said Fred. “It’s old and hard to see.”

  “I can’t protect you if things get sketchy.” Sliding off the cart, I marched forward. “Remember the last time we went hiking? You need to go home.”

  “We have experience in these woods you don’t have,” said Laci. “We’ve hiked to the peak lots of times.”

  “The police found a body on the peak. A dead one. You need to go home.”

  “Was it Chandler?” Mara grabbed my arm. “Did they find him?”

  I patted her hand. “No. Nothing to do with Chandler.” I gazed up the trail that led from Wellspring. Maybe something to do with Chandler.

  “Let’s go,” said Laci, heading off the trail. “We can be stealthy. Better than you.”

  Mara darted into the woods after her. Leaving Fred to protect me with a Swiss Army pocket knife.

  “Go after the girls,” I said to Fred. “You need to convince them this isn’t fun and games. This guy had a gun and there are at least two people dead. It’s seriously dangerous.”

  “Okay, but they don’t really listen to me.”

  “Fred, this is your time to shine. Be the knight. Save the damsels.”

  “They told me it’s sexist—”

  “Fred, go.”

  He disappeared into the woods after the girls. Continuing uphill, I listened for the kids and the ATV. Thirty minutes later, the area between my backpack and back had grown steamy. My calves shot stinging waves of complaint into the backs of my thighs. And I was starving.

  “I am so never hiking again,” I promised myself. “At least not uphill.”

  I needed a break. Denver was probably long gone. I moved off the trail to rest on a fallen tree. And immediately hopped off. The area behind the tree buzzed with flies and smelled like old garbage. I circled around the tree to look for another resting spot downwind and found a boot.

  Again.

  Forty-Nine

  #NoBootAboutIt #BigfootBounty

  The boot in question was not a Keane. It was a brand of which I was not familiar. And attached to the foot of Everett Lawson, of whom I was familiar. In a way. And who’d been mostly buried beneath the fallen tree. Or not buried well and drug out by something. Hopefully not Bigfoot, but I didn’t want to know just the same.

  It wasn’t that thought that sent me hurtling deeper into the woods to get sick. But it didn’t help.

  By the time I had lost the lunch I had not yet had and breathed shallowly against a tree, I looked around. I couldn’t spot the fallen tree, much less the path. Above me squirrels frolicked, completely oblivious to the death haunting the forest. I had enough sense to mark the tree with a strip ripped from my Re/Done tee (which took some doing with their quality craftsmanship). Remembered I still had Oliver’s phone. Which had no service on the mountain.

  Frigorrendous.

  I hollered for the teens. Who didn’t respond. I set out in a dubious direction. Turned back. Tried another way. Turned back. And wished I’d paid more attention ten years prior when Daddy decided I should spend the summer learning outdoor survival. I’d spent the summer unlearning outdoor survival because I was fifteen and found the idea of myself lost in the wilderness ridiculous.

  Which was exactly why Mara, Fred, and Laci should listen to me. Fifteen-year-olds don’t know everything.

  Because the ground sloped, I chose the uphill climb. At least in this direction, the mountain would peak as opposed to spread. I gave up on Denver and the ATV and focused once again on the back sweat and ache in my calves. I stopped. Behind me, a crackling of leaves sounded more human than squirrel. I whirled around.

  Nothing but trees and bushes. And a possible snake that was more likely a stick.

  I slowed my steps, listened, and again heard the dry rustle of feet treading on pine straw. This time I moved toward a large tree, passed it, then double-backed to hide behind it. The rustling halted. I hesitated, building my courage to peer around the tree. A thump resounded from the tree, followed by a scrabbling. I tiptoed from the tree. Took three running steps. The air stirred. And a body collapsed on me.

  My scream ended as I slammed into a pool of leaves. Something lay on top of me, panting. I tried to roll, but the weight kept me pinned. I screamed again. My feet scrambled, trying to push off the ground. My hands clawed the dirt, trying to pull myself free. Then froze.

  A male voice whispered, “Don’t move. I have a knife.”

  I screeched and felt a sharp point dig into my armpit.

  “Denver?” Butterflies beat inside my skull. Hummingbirds thrashed inside my rib cage. My hot, sweaty skin now felt slick and icy. My breath shuddered. “What do you want with me? I didn’t see you at the robbery. I can’t testify you were there.”

  “What robbery?” The tip of the knife poked through my shirt. “Was Crispin Jonson there, too?”

  “Crispin?” I gave a cry feeling the blade knick my skin. “I don’t know. I only saw Roger.”

  “Roger? Who’s Roger?”

  “The guy who blew up the bank.”

  The knife wielder fell silent.

  “Who are you?” I said, my voice unsteady. “Can I roll over? I don’t have a weapon.”

  My head was shoved into the leaves and I inhaled pine straw dust.

  “No, who are you?” said the voice. “I saw you earlier. Going through the Jonson house and Chandler Jonson’s apartment. And on the mountain. What were you doing with the Bigfoot Tracker crew?”

  “Are you the guy on the motorcycle?” I glared into the dirt and dead leaves. “You vandalized my dirt bike. And almost gave me a concussion with your rocks and sticks.”

  He shook my shoulder. “Who are you? What are you doing with Fred, Mara, and Laci?”

  “They hired me to look for Chandler Jonson. I’m a private investigator.” I inhaled another round of leaf dust and hacked.

  The pressure against my head and back eased and he rolled me over. I flopped on top of my backpack like an overturned turtle. And stared into the face of a bearded man. Looking more Leonardo in The Revenant than Bear Grylls in Man vs Wild.

  I hiked in a breath and felt a strange thrumming throughout my body. “Chandler?”

  His chin jerked. He narrowed his eyes, staring into the distance. Popping up like a chipmunk, he’d darted toward the tree, jumped, and hauled himself onto a branch. Climbing branch to branch, he hid in a heavy mass of browning foliage.

  The drumming was the pounding of feet on the forest floor. I couldn’t believe it. Chandler had left me to be caught by Denver.

  “Maizie?” hollered Fred. “Where are you?”

  I released the breath I’d held and sat up. The three appeared in the distance.

  “We heard you screaming,” said Mara. “Was it a snake or a spider?”

  I pointed at the tree, not liking the tremble in
my hand. “Chandler. I found Chandler. He found me.”

  “Did you hit your head again?” said Laci. “That’s a tree.”

  The ground thudded and the three turned toward the tree. Rushing forward, they attacked Chandler. I waited while they exchanged numerous “dudes” and “where you beens” and “we were so worrieds.”

  “I knew you hadn’t gone to Mexico,” said Mara, her voice tuned to boy-crush. “I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped.”

  I supposed “believed dead or kidnapped” made the heart grow fonder.

  “Almost dead,” he said. “Some dude caught me at the Wellspring fence. A bunch of them were having some kind of meeting out in the dark. I was trying to listen. He and an older guy forced me to walk back to my car. The younger guy took off in my car. But first, they made me take off my clothes and boots.”

  I was so right about that boot. Not that it gave me any pleasure now.

  “Why would they do that?” said Laci.

  “The dogs would have a harder time tracking my body. I ran before the older dude could shoot me with his rifle.”

  “You were running around the woods naked?” said Laci. “Gross.”

  “I stole clothes asap. That Naked and Afraid TV show is bogus.”

  “I knew it was Wellspring,” said Fred. “Did they interrogate you about our chicken farm theories?”

  “It had nothing to do with Sasquatch, man,” said Chandler. “I didn’t want to tell you three because it was too dangerous. I was spying on Wellspring, but not why you thought. My brother’s involved in major pharmaceutical sales with them. I caught him with a box of pills and began tailing him. He’s dealing for Wellspring.”

  “I saw the capsules in his room,” I said. “Those pills are herbal supplements.”

  “Those pills are as herbal as opium,” said Chandler. “They’re selling them.”

  “Kratom’s not illegal. The police know about it. They’ve been in the greenhouse and they’ve seen the pills,” I said. “I researched kratom. It’s controversial and not regulated. The police don’t like it and there are kratom-related deaths. In other states and countries, it’s illegal. But not Georgia.”